Elvis's Beauty, Barber, Bait & Bakery: A Dozen Fathead Minnows With Every Perm

By Rita Haag

On his 50th birthday, shy, handsome Brent Wallace-salon owner and avid fisherman-makes an offer on an old building in a northern Wisconsin town. He plans to open several small businesses allowing him to semi-retire minutes from his favorite fishing hole, where the walleye are always biting, and the resident crow keeps him company.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wood Lane Books
• Release date: Mar 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798987601631

Rita Haag

I write for the same reason I read: to find out what happens next. I love working and playing with words, and finding the exact one---or combination---that precisely expresses my thoughts. I rejoice in those moments when it suddenly occurs to me where a word or a phrase I've used all my life came from, or when some situation sparks an idea that turns into a short story that evolves into a novel. I'm grateful to have the time, interest, ability, and desire to create stories; the gift of imagination that has kept writers' block at bay; and the gift of empathy that enables me to create realistic characters and situations. Writing has always been my strength, but fiction has become my passion.

Book preview

1

THE CROW STARTED IT

Brent Wallace was not the type to initiate a conversation. The crow started it. On any other day, that’s where the conversation would have ended, since Brent Wallace was also not the type to talk to animals. But the morning had gotten off to a such a bad start that by the time the piercing CAW echoed out over Little Pine Lake, Brent figured if he didn’t get a few things off his chest the whole day would be ruined. Besides, he was the only fisherman on the water so no one else would hear his rant, and it wasn't like the crow would care what he said anyway.

Don’t get me wrong, he called out in the general direction of the woods on the west end of the lake where the crow apparently lived. I like women. I own a salon, for Pete’s sake. I spend half my life with them. I even married one. But I like fishing more. Fish are predictable. You know where you stand with fish. They don’t flirt, they don’t cry, and they don’t ask you to cut their hair like Jennifer Aniston’s.

To Brent’s surprise, the crow cawed back. He’d never spoken to it before. In fact, he seldom saw it, since the woods featured a heavy growth of bird-hiding evergreens, but one morning he realized that every time he took his old Lund 1700 Pro Sport out on Little Pine Lake and cut the power on the Evinrude, he heard a familiar caw. He also noticed a fuss every time he reeled in a walleye. If it was a lunker, the crow let loose a series of sharp, bold caws, but if the catch was puny, Brent heard a disappointed awwww. Not the ideal fishing buddy, but not bad, either, although he'd never imagined actually having a conversation with it.  On the other hand, people talked to themselves all the time, so was this so weird? Besides, what the crow lacked in comprehension it made up for in dependability, and Brent Wallace was definitely the type to value dependability. Even in a crow.

After a quick scan of the lake to make sure he was still alone, he grabbed his new Pflueger President Spinning Rod and aimed his voice out over the water. I’m just frustrated because it’s my fiftieth birthday. And it’s the opening day of walleye season, so, he continued as he searched the tree line for movement, I decided to give myself the perfect gift: a day on the lake!

He eased onto the boat’s swivel seat and pulled his bait bucket closer. But he still hadn’t made his point, so he picked up where he'd left off. Even if the crow didn’t understand, it felt good to let it out.

I had the day all planned, he said as he scooped out a fathead minnow and baited the hook. Hang out on the water. Catch a few walleye . . . have a few snacks . . .

Caw! Caw! Caw!

Brent looked up and watched the bird fly kitty-corner toward a bank of willows on the northern shore. It settled in a branch facing him—as if waiting for the rest of the story—and Brent let loose in a tirade he’d been holding in way too long.

"But do I HAVE any snacks? No! Because while I was at the gas station deciding which kind of potato chips I was in the mood for, this clerk—a clerk, mind you, not even anyone I know—comes up and nearly runs into me. No regard for personal space. I’m backing away but she keeps marching at me. Finally she stops and plants her hands on her hips and hollers out, ‘Well aren’t you just a big hunk a' handsome.’"

He felt the heat rise to his face again as he recalled the three heads jerking up from across the aisles and staring.

I hightailed it out of there without buying a thing. No chips, no candy bars, no jerky. I love snacks. Fishing without snacks is like movies without popcorn. Slamming the lid on the bait bucket, he vowed never to stop at that gas station again.

Okay. Done venting. Time to fish.

He stood and cast out, his eyes following the end of the line as it snapped in the air, then dove in the water. He imagined a school of walleye gliding along several feet below the surface and suddenly doing an about-face to go after the lively minnow. It was a great image, but his mind started churning again.

Also, Lisa got up at four a.m. She never does that. I think she’s up to something.

He was considering whether or not it was important to mention that Lisa was his wife when he felt a pull. He jerked the rod and welcomed the adrenaline rush, but when he reeled in the line the minnow was gone. He baited the hook again, cast out, and the feeling of dread returned.

So, can I relax and enjoy myself today? NO! Because when I walk in the door tonight people are going to jump out from behind furniture and yell, Surprise!"

Lisa loved parties. He hated them.

Maybe I’ll just stay out here until midnight. If I don’t get home ‘til two in the morning the party will be over, and everyone will be gone. What do you think about that?

No word from the crow, but the bobber wobbled, grabbing Brent’s attention. He stared at it thinking he could be wrong about the party since Lisa hadn’t asked when he’d be returning. In fact, he couldn’t recall discussing if he’d even get home tonight.

The crow was still quiet. Maybe it had heard enough complaining. He eased back onto the padded seat and pretended he didn’t have a job or a wife or a birthday that had been ruined. Soon he felt another nibble, saw the bobber dip, and yanked the rod, setting the hook. He wound the reel, and the fish leapt out of the water, a mid-sized walleye with a lot of fight. Brent played it for several minutes, then brought it in. Although his heart was thumping like mad with the thrill of the catch, he felt a sudden rush of empathy. No amount of flipping, jerking, or pitching was going to save the struggling fish.

You know, he called out as a thought clarified, I think that’s my problem. Being around women makes me feel more like a fish than a fisherman.

The crow swooped from the willow, flew overhead, and cawed. Brent cawed back and held the fish up to give the bird a good look and called over: See? You catch a fish, you’re in charge. You catch a woman, and . . .

He left the sentence hanging and the crow let out a barrage of cackling as it headed back to the edge of the woods and flew off noisily through the trees. Brent eased the hook from the walleye’s mouth and threw the fish in the live well. He grabbed the minnow bucket but decided to change things up. He searched his box of lures for a Wally Diver, tied it to the line, and cast out. He looked out over the water for a few minutes thinking about that struggling fish, then felt a rumble in his stomach.

He put the rod back in the holder and sat. As he pulled the cooler closer Lisa came to mind again, and he realized she was a good woman. Just not good for him.

The only reason I even got married was because Lisa asked me out, arranged our dates, proposed, and took care of all the wedding plans. I was honest about things. I told her I liked her a lot, but I wasn’t sure I loved her.

Jeepers, he thought, saying it out loud makes it sound terrible. As silly as it was, he felt the need to explain. She really wanted to get married, and I was already forty-two at the time. And the only bachelor in my poker club.

He took a deep breath. Although this was the last thing he wanted to think about, maybe on his fiftieth birthday he should be making some sort of plan for the rest of his life.

I never should have married her, that’s for sure. By our first anniversary it was clear she had more in common with her wardrobe than with me.

Even though the crow hadn’t returned, it felt good to put his thoughts into words, like maybe his mouth could say things his brain wasn’t ready to admit.

We talked about divorce, but we’d both worked so hard fixing up our house, neither of us wanted to leave.

He took out a ham and cheese sandwich and when he pulled the plastic wrap apart he found a small piece of perfumed notepaper, which he certainly hadn’t put there. He sniffed the sandwich to be sure it hadn’t taken on the lavender scent and set it on the cooler, unfolded the paper, and read the note: Dear Brent, Just wanted you to be the first to know I’m engaged. Ray proposed last night! I’m filing for divorce tomorrow. Love you! Lisa.

Engaged? So that’s why Lisa had gotten up early.

This is too good to be true, he thought, and he read the note again looking for the flaw. The quotes around engaged? Was this tentative? Was the engagement dependent on something which, whether it happened or didn’t, might cause Ray to un-propose?

Then he realized Lisa had probably used quotes because they were still married, so she couldn’t be officially engaged. Well, good for her, he thought. Then it hit him: If she was engaged, he was off the hook. And if she and Ray got married, they’d have to buy out his half of the house.

And if they bought out his half of the house . . .

2

201 SOUTH STREET

It could work.

But not just a beauty salon. As crazy as it had sounded at the time, Uncle Thad’s idea suddenly made a lot of sense. You gotta go bigger, he’d said, when Brent had shared his dream to semi-retire in Pine Lake. "A small town like that? You set up a beauty salon and a barbershop. And bait. Gotta have a bait shop with all the lakes up there, cabins everywhere. You could sell a lotta bait. Heck, you throw in a bakery, then you got something."

Brent was tempted to leave the lake that very minute, but the fish were biting and his brain was humming. Just before dusk he packed up and headed to shore. As he cut the engine, the crow cawed and soared overhead, flapping in such a way that Brent could have sworn it was waving its wings. He waved back and cawed a goodby as the crow flew off into the distance.

Well if that isn’t a good omen, I don’t know what is, Brent thought. He winched the boat unto the trailer, hopped in the truck, and checked the time on the dash: 8:45.

He must have driven that road a hundred times before but had never paid attention to exactly how long it took to get from the lake to the little downtown area. Twelve minutes? Fifteen?

When he pulled to the curb across from the vacant building he checked the time: 8:52. Only seven minutes!

He peered out at a large plate glass window etched with the words Havisto’s Market and broke into a smile as he read the two large words on the billboard out front: FOR SALE.

The building was big enough to accommodate four shops and battered enough to be in his price range, not to mention that the For Sale sign had been there as long as he could remember. A banner slapped across the bottom read, Land Contract Option. The seller was probably very motivated. Maybe even desperate.

He shut off the ignition, grabbed his cell phone, and headed to the building. Stopping in front of the realtor’s sign, he entered the number for Pine Lake Realty. After the fifth ring he heard the beginning sounds of a recorded answer, ended the call, and slipped the phone back into his vest pocket. There was a cellphone number . . . but it was Sunday night. Maybe he should wait and call in the morning. On the other hand, he was a serious buyer. He pulled out his phone and entered the second set of numbers listed on the sign, hoping the guy would be up for an impromptu showing.

After four rings, deafening music filled his ears. Hello? Brent hollered.

Who is this? a voice on the other end shouted.

He shouted back: I’m looking for someone from Pine Lake Realty. Sorry, I must have the wrong—

No! Wait. Wait!

The music stopped.

It’s me. I’m Pine Lake Realty. I mean, like, I work there.

I mean, like, I work there? Maybe she was her father’s answering service. Regardless, this obviously young girl needed a lesson in phone etiquette. How old are you? he asked.

Why? Are you some kind of pervert?

No . . . NO!

She suddenly sounded a lot older, and he broke into a sweat picturing his arrest. He nearly hung up, but . . . could this be the opportunity of a lifetime? He took a deep breath and continued.

I’m standing in front of a commercial building on South Street. It has a Pine Lake Realty sign in front with this number on it. I’m not a pervert, I’m a potential client. I was hoping I could see it tonight while I’m in town.

You actually want to see that building?

Well, I know it’s late, but I work six days a week and—

Wow! You mean the building at 201 South?

Yes. Is there a problem?

No. No! But it’s been on the market so long I kinda gave up on it.

This couldn’t be an actual realtor. Must be an assistant. A very young and unprofessional assistant-in-training. If you aren’t able to show it, is it possible to locate someone who could?

I can show it. I just want to make sure you aren’t some lunatic. Hey, wait a minute. Did Binky Todd get you to call me? This is a joke, right?

No! I’m definitely interested in the building.

Great! I’ll be there in five.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. He considered leaving, but now when he looked at the FOR SALE sign it seemed to have spawned an invisible line that read SEVEN MINUTES TO WALLEYE. He walked around the old building again, peered in a couple of windows, imagined closing up at five o’clock on a weekday afternoon, and easing his boat out onto Little Pine Lake a mere seven minutes later. That would be the life!

As he was about to give up, an aging purple Honda Civic with a dented driver’s-side fender roared into the lot, muffler rattling. It squealed to a stop and the door opened releasing a fairly tall, formally-dressed—but shoeless—purple-haired girl.

Hi, she called out. Whoever she was. Definitely not the realtor.

Hi. I’m just waiting for a realtor, he said.

Yeah. I figured. That would be me. Dana Novicki.

Not likely, he said to himself, thinking he’d interrupted her at her high school prom, or maybe a wedding since she was wearing a slightly-stained, shiny, light purple gown with a dark purple shawl. As she came closer he wondered if it hurt to have that many holes poked in your ears and face. And if she always went barefoot. It wasn’t even summer yet.

She held out her hand which had a thing on the back that seemed to be crawling up her arm.

Is that a tattoo?

It’s a yeti crab.

Oh. He stared at it for a second then remembered his manners and shook her hand, surprised at her strong, assured grip.

As she pulled her hand back she flipped it. It has these hairy pincers . . . She pointed at them and continued, and scientists think—

He lost track of what she was saying—something about food and protection—because now she sounded like a ten-year-old explaining a science project. No way this girl, who couldn’t have been out of high school yet, was a realtor.

Do you have some form of identification? he asked.

You mean like a driver’s license?

True, he thought. She was driving, so that meant she was at least 16. And she was tall, about five-eight he guessed, although he didn’t know what—if any—correlation there might be between age and height.

No, I meant something to show you really are a realtor.

Yoo-hoo! she said, ramming the jangling keys in his face.

Startled, he jerked back, throwing his hands up for protection.

Duh! she said, her purple-ringed eyes growing huge. I have the keys. I must be the realtor.

He considered getting back in his truck, heading home, and calling Pine Lake Realty the next morning when most likely an actual realtor would answer, but she was walking in the direction of the building, which, he reminded himself, was only seven minutes from walleye. If he could get it for the right price he’d be seven minutes from walleye, too. So, Duh! he said to himself and followed her for several yards when her bare feet caught his attention again.

Miss . . . what was your name again?

Dana. Dana Novicki.

Okay, Miss Dana Novicki, we’re heading into an old building and you’re barefoot. What if there’s broken glass or nails on the ground? Shouldn’t you put some shoes on?

She turned and looked at her car, then looked back at him. Yeah. You’re probably right. I might have something in the trunk.

She headed back to her car, her dress swishing with each step. She opened the trunk, pushed things around, then threw something on the ground. Seconds later she clomped in his direction wearing a too-large pair of men’s black dress shoes.

My lucky day! she said. I get all my clothes at thrift shops and on my last visit I picked these up for Binky. That’s my boyfriend. Good thing I have big feet. They’re still a little loose, but you’re right. I really should have shoes on to walk around in there. Thanks, she said, as she continued clomping and swishing in the direction of the building. When she got to the door she turned and said, That is one muckraking outfit!

For a split second he was confused, his mind connecting the word muckraking with old-time journalism and pushy reporters. He glanced down, just to be certain he was wearing what, in his mind, didn’t look at all muckraking considering it was his fishing vest with all the pockets, his fishing hat onto which he’d attached a variety of carefully chosen lures, and the lucky belt with the fish-shaped buckle he’d inherited from Uncle Thad who’d won it at a fishing tournament.

The young woman looked down at her feet, causing a purplish hank of beaded hair to break loose from the rest of her tousled coif and swing in mid-air. I usually wear shoes when I’m showing a house but I couldn’t find them.

So she does normally wear shoes, he thought. And she does have the keys.

She put the key in the lockbox but before she opened the door she turned to him again. Do you have a girlfriend?

Jeepers! Was she coming on to him, too?

Then, recalling her pervert comment earlier, he thought of entrapment, and looked around. Although they were completely alone in a quiet neighborhood in a totally secluded parking lot at the back door of an abandoned building . . . and despite the fact that she was a realtor (supposedly), and he was a potential buyer (hopefully), he wondered if there was some kind of surveillance going on and asked: Are you wearing a wire?

You mean like an underwire bra?

What? NO!! He felt the heat rise to his face. You just asked if I had a girlfriend. He’d put every bit of innocent exasperation he could muster into the words.

Yeah . . .

He had to assume the obvious. Don’t you think I’m a little old for you?

Oh, WAAAY old. I’m not asking for me. It’s just that you’re kind of cute. In a traditional sort of way, I mean. And my aunt just got a divorce. No wedding ring so I just wondered if you were putting yourself out there?

Out where?

You know. Like . . . like dating.

Walleye. Remember the walleye, he told himself.

I just want to look at the building, he said, suddenly aware of the contrast between that nearly lifeless sentence and Dana Novicki’s fancy dress, quirky coif, ridiculous shoes, unusual demeanor, and yeti crab tattoo. For a split second, he envied her.

As if reading his mind, she shot him a ‘thumbs-up,’ said, Sure. No problem, and to his relief, she turned around and opened the door.

He considered telling her he was married, but decided against it. Bottom line, she gave him the creeps. All that purple. Maybe she was in some sort of cult.

No, mentioning Lisa wasn’t a good idea. But now that unsettled feeling—along with thoughts of his soon-to-be-ex-wife—conjured up scenes from one of the Twilight Zone reruns she used to watch. Of course, in that episode the embodiment of evil was a scruffy, blank-eyed, six-year-old boy. Still, there was something about the darkening skies, the lightning and thunder in the distance, and the intense silence in the quiet little town that made him hesitate before following this tall, formally-dressed girl—with hairy pincers crawling up her arm—into the old building.

3

FOUR LITTLE SHOPS

Dana Novicki banged on the entrance door of her boyfriend’s little house hollering, Binky Everlovin’ Todd, get out here. When he didn’t appear she hammered with both hands, screaming, Binky, Binky, BINKYYYY!

Several seconds later the door flew open. What the hell is wrong with you?

Dana jumped up and down in place, clomped down the two porch steps, clomped back up, and threw her arms around the young man who stood before her in a t-shirt and zebra-striped pajama bottoms, with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.

Every time I think you’ve finally grown up you pull something like this. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was in bed. I told you, I have to work tomorrow. EARLY!

Guess what!

He put his hands up as if to stop her, and she grabbed them and tried to pull him into a dance, but he held his ground and she bobbed around him.

You lost your shoes, he said, staring at her feet.

"NO! Now guess! Oh, and these are for you," she said, bending over and unlacing the black shoes.

I don’t feel like guessing.

Binky Poop-Face Todd, you are no fun. She handed him the shoes. They’re your size. And they’re still in really good shape! Look at the soles.

Dana, I’m tired! He took the shoes and looked them over. I work construction. What am I gonna do with these? He shook his head and set them down inside the door. This better be important, because I am seriously considering breaking up with you about now.

Frog flippers! Think how BORING your life would be without me. She smiled a big smile. Okay. The ‘what’ that I was asking you to guess about is that I . . . just . . . showed—wait for it—HAVISTO’S!

It’s Sunday night. Who looks at real estate on Sunday night?

He’s gonna buy, I just know it. She closed her eyes, twirled on the little porch, and ended on her tiptoes. Do you know what this means?

That you can pay back the three hundred bucks you owe me?

C’mon, Binky. She tossed her head from side to side, and stuck her lower lip out. Aren’t you excited for me. I’m going to make my first sale!

Babe, I could have been just as excited—NO!—actually, I would have been far more excited if you’d waited until tomorrow to tell me. I need to get some sleep.

He’s going to turn it into four little shops and he’s going to call it Brent’s Beauty, Barber, Bait, and Bakery.

You’re kidding.

No. Seriously. Won’t that be cute? And we really need a bait shop around here.

Okay, Babe. I’m happy for you. Goodnight. He grabbed the doorknob.

Don’t you want to celebrate with me?

Yes. I do. Just as soon as you actually sell the building. You can take me out for a steak.

Okay. That sounds like f—

SLAM!

C’mon, Binky. Open up. Oh, come on. At least give me a hug.

Dana stood on the doorstep for a minute. Oh, poo. BINKY TODD, YOU ARE THE WORLD’S WORST MUCKRAKING BOYFRIEND!!

She waited another minute then turned around and got back in her car, wondering how early she could go to Grace with the offer. This was going to be tricky. Stubborn old Grace Havisto would have to ease up on her terms a little. Mom would know how to handle this, she thought. I’m really gonna need to tone down the ‘Dana.’

4

ELVIS ON THE COUCH

Grace Havisto typed in her bid for the professionally framed and certified-authentic Elvis Presley-autographed album cover and hit the enter key on her computer. As if by magic, Elvis’s smoking rendition of A Hunk A Hunk of Burnin’ Love filled her ears. For a split second she sat back, nodding her head to the music and then, with a start, realized where the sound came from. She gave her desk chair a shove and as it hit the wall behind her, the jolt—along with a strategic push off the armrests—gave her sufficient momentum for a graceful rise to standing position.

Ooo, ooo, ooo, I feel my temperature rising, Grace sang with the music as she sashayed to the front door, moving to the beat. She was smiling right up until she pushed aside the curtain panels and peeked out at a triple-pierced ear bisected by a beaded braid of mottled purplish hair, and whispered, Fiddlesticks!

It’s me, Grace. I’ve got an offer.

It was Dana, the irritating realtor girl. Grace hollered through the closed door, You need a touch-up.

Yeah. Soon as I make a sale in this godforsaken town maybe I can afford one. C’mon, Grace. Let me in. I’ve got good news.

Just wanted to make sure you are who I think you are.

Who else around here has purple hair?

Grace opened the door and as Dana entered she reached back and pressed the doorbell again, then wrinkled her nose. What’s that?

Grace just gave her a look. What kind of idiot wouldn’t know that was Elvis?

Oh. Yeah. Mom told me. That’s Elvis, right? How did you get your doorbell to do that?

It was a birthday present from my grandson. Smart kid. At least he knows who Elvis is, she thought. Are you getting married today? she asked.

What?

Your dress. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a wedding dress.

Oh. Right. Isn’t it great! I got the best deal on it because it had a purple tag. Purple is my lucky color.

Really? Grace said, feeling only slightly guilty about the sarcasm in her voice. So when’s the wedding?

No wedding. I just love beautiful, old, cheap dresses.

Grace took a brief moment to ponder how on earth a sweet, normal, poised businesswoman like Audrey Novicki could have spawned a wacko kid like Dana, then headed into her living room. Well, c’mon in, then. You can sit over there by my sweetie.

Dana stuck out her tongue and shuddered. What is that? It gives me the creeps.

That’s Elvis! Wacko and moody, Grace thought. Fine, she said, plopping down next to her cloth-and-plastic idol and pointing to the love seat across from her.

Dana looked around and made a face.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down, Dana. There’s nothin’ here gonna bite you.

If Grace had known Audrey was going to let her daughter join the realty office, she would have specified that only Audrey would handle her listing. Where is your mother again?

She’s in Greece. But, listen. I have an offer on your building! Can you believe it?

You found a buyer who’ll turn it back into a grocery store again, right?

"Grace, we are so lucky to have found this man.